It’s hard to believe Writer’s Roadhouse has completed its first month. We’ve had several thousand hits, scores of subscriptions, and fine discussions on each post. The best part of Roadhouse, its heart and soul, are your thoughtful and finely crafted comments. Adrian Fogelin and Tgumster deserve special thanks for their effort, but I am thoroughly grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read and embrace this blog.
Last week I received the notes from my editor, and the rewrite will require my full attention for now. If I come up for air and write a post, you will receive notice if you have subscribed. And if any writer is struggling with a problem, please write it in the “Ask A Question” section. I will check those daily and make sure you get the help you need.
I will miss you for a bit, but look forward to your return.
Leigh Continue reading
Kathleen, Leigh, Matt, and Jim Muller on the top of Pike's Peak.
I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend. I think I may be a writer, but I am too afraid to voice those words. I have nothing to go on, only a feeling, some terrible poems I wrote in sixth grade, a few decent essays in high school and college, and again, this tug to pick up a pen and write.
Perhaps even stronger than my need to write is the responsibility I feel as that wife, mother, daughter, friend. Writing takes hours a day; when I’m not physically putting down words, I am writing them in my head. What starts out as a tug turns into an embrace and I don’t feel I can be this selfish with my time.
So everything else, everyone else, comes first.
But at 2 am, the feeling isn’t a tug; it’s a drill sergeant shaking me awake. Characters flick on the overhead light in my brain and I can no longer sleep for the glare and the noise. They grab my hands and pull. Careful not to wake my husband, I slip out of bed and take a legal pad and pen downstairs. A couple of hours later, I have the beginning of a novel.